


Across the Universe

by shiplizard



Series: Imitation Gems [1]
Category: Forever (TV), Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen, Henry Needs A Hug, Henry blames the Victorians for this 'no touching' social nonsense, Hug Henry Morgan Day, No gem stuff, No plot just fluff and friendship, Very dude-heavy for a Steven Universe fic I apologize, fathers and sons, yet - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-31 04:34:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6456058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiplizard/pseuds/shiplizard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The place is Empire City. It's four years before Henry meets Jo Martinez, four years before the unknown caller. He's content to work in the morgue and the antique shop, content living with solitude... </p><p>Or that's what he tells himself until an imaginative little boy and his musician father come into his life in a whirl of sound and colour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Across the Universe

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place in the same crossover universe as [Imitation Gems](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5240285), just several years earlier. It should stand alone; you don't need to read IG to understand this and vice versa. 
> 
> The fic uses the Steven Universe geography of the US. (Hopefully I'm right and Empire City is supposed to be NYC and not somewhere in Kansas) 
> 
> Much love to [Binz](http://archiveofourown.org/users/binz/pseuds/binz) and [Idelthoughts](http://archiveofourown.org/users/idelthoughts/pseuds/idelthoughts) for betaing

_2011: Empire City, A Tuesday_

“What’s up with you?” Abe murmured, bumping his shoulder against Henry’s.

Henry looked up; their young guest continued to experiment with the guitar in his lap. His hands, small and short-fingered, couldn’t stretch across the frets, but he was improvising quite cleverly.

“What in the world do you mean?”

“Well, ten minutes ago when these two wandered in, I thought you were going to throw them out for not following the dress code. Now it’s ‘oh don’t worry about the meter running out, use our guest spot across the street’ and ‘sure, we’ll watch the kid while you move your van.’”

“He’s obviously no trouble, look at him. Look at the way he holds the guitar. We’ve had grown customers who treat the merchandise with less respect.” He used his chin to gesture to the young boy, sat carefully on the old stool they used as a step-ladder, and plastered on a bright smile when the boy glanced over before looking back down at his fingers.

“No question about it. And I’m not saying it’s a bad thing you lightened up a little, I’m just confused.”

“Look at his clothing.”

“Looks like a band shirt, actually. Logo’s familiar. Actually, the kid’s dad looked familiar, too—“

“Not the point, Abraham. The point is that although it’s patently a hand-me-down, it’s clean and in excellent repair. Not like his father’s clothing, ripped in the knees and stained.” Henry gestures subtly. “And it’s his father who taught him to play; he praised his son’s eye for noticing the guitar in the window, even if the price tag staggered him. For goodness’ sake, the man runs a car wash; he’s not a person of means, but he keeps his son well fed and well dressed— rather better than himself, in fact—and obviously nurtures his musical talents.”

“Ah, projecting a little? I get it. A dad who wants to do right by his son even when things are difficult. Ringing a bell?”

“Perhaps a little,” Henry admitted, stiffly. “I wasn’t always able to give you the life that other boys your age had. We uprooted you so often.”

“Hey. I turned out fine.”

“Still.”  Henry smiled wistfully at the tousle-headed boy with the guitar. “Still. I remember when you were learning piano.”

“I remember you hated jazz,” Abe teased quietly. “Sneaky, turning the kid on to classical guitar while his dad’s busy.”

“Oh, he hardly needed turning on. I only played Gran Vals for him. He heard the phone tune—“

“Ring tone—“

“Straight off. Listen, he’s improvising now.”

“ _Is it you who’s calling, did you want to say hello?_ ” the boy sang to himself, pudgy fingers plucking sweet notes out of the antique guitar. “ _Did you want to tell a secret, is there someplace we should go? Making plans, to spend some time, with my dad, on the telephone. Is it you who’s calling, did you want to say hello?_ ”

The boy solemnly reached over to his flip-phone, touching a button to echo his guitar rendition with the tinny notes that cell phones had made so ubiquitous, concluding his impromptu song.

“Kid’s good,” Abe mused. “Not Mozart, but—“

“But he’s ten. I think he has an extraordinary musical instinct,” Henry beamed.

The bell over the door jangled as a heavyset man hurried in with the late afternoon sunshine, brushing his unkempt hair back out of his face.

“Okay! Chez Universe is safely parked and nobody’s getting towed. Thanks for letting Steven stay in here, Doctor Morgan.”

Henry turned to him with a smile. “He was an angel, Gregory. I could wish all of our customers were so well behaved.”

“Universe,” Abe muttered, squinting. And then, with a look at Henry. “Gregory?”

“We’ll be out of your hair soon,” Greg said, offering them a sheepish smile. “After I figure out dinner we should head out; I can get us back to Delmarva by ten, and Steven can sleep in a real bed.”

“I like sleeping in the van,” Steven protested, squirming out of his seat, guitar held carefully against his chest. “I wanted to see the Freedom Statue. Can’t we stay tonight?”

“Sorry, Stuball. Parking in Empire City’s not cheap,” Greg sighed.

Henry watched his eyes lingering on his son— saw the flicker of guilt, poor man, and wistfulness. He’d gathered from the barest conversation that Greg had managed to make a business trip into an enjoyable outing with his son— who, Henry suspected, he didn’t see as frequently as he’d like.

The details he’d been unable to deduce. It wasn’t divorce or any legal mandate, but Steven obviously lived apart, and Greg lived… in his van, which situation he might be able to remedy if he prioritized himself above his son. Which would be unthinkable, that was obvious. Henry might think (did think) that Greg desperately needed a shave, a haircut, and a less aggressively casual wardrobe, but he couldn’t argue with the man’s priorities.

He glanced at Abe, who raised his eyebrows and looked skyward; it was as good as an agreement.

“If parking’s the trouble, we never use the second guest space,” he offered.

“And we’ve got a couch to spare,” Abe put in. “Why don’t you guys stay?”

Greg favored them with a dubious look, entirely appropriate for a pair of near complete strangers who’d suddenly offered lodging for the night. ‘Possibly serial killers,’ said the look; ‘possibly con men.’

“Look, thanks for the hospitality, but… aaah…”

“It’s okay,” Abe reassured him. “Question, though.”

“Shoot,” Greg said, and laughed nervously. “Not literally, please?”

Henry couldn’t suppress a frown— he would never. Steven looked puzzled by the remark, and then smiled innocently, deciding it had been a joke.

Abe ignored the aside: “Keystone Rockfest, back in… ‘84.”

“What about it?”

“That was you, right?” Abe did a short, frenetic impression of playing a guitar. “Mister Universe? _Space train to the cosmos, get inside, one way ticket and I’m ready to ride._ ”

Greg’s eyes lit up. “You saw my concert?”

“Yeah! A couple of buddies and me got together for that one. Middle-age hippies chasing wasted youth, I guess— but it was a great time. You were great. I don’t remember too much, we were passing around a—” Abe shot a glance at Henry. “I mean, Mister Universe, you were great.”

“Dad is the best!” Steven opined, apparently too overwhelmed with filial pride to wait any longer. Henry smiled; Abe had been impulsive, too. But kind, and sweet. Such a good boy.

He’d long mastered the impulse to wrap a paternal arm around his son in public, but seeing Greg’s son full of energy and happiness made it a difficult thing. He looked on, only a bit wistful as Greg ruffled his son’s untamed hair.

“Thanks, kiddo. Thank you, Mister Morgan.”

“Hey, no problem. What ever happened to you, anyway?”

Greg laughed, ran a hand over his balding head. “Well… Steven’s mom did, not too long after that, actually.”

“He was playing on the beach, and she came to his concert and they fell in love!” Steven burst in again, with all the pleasure of retelling a favourite story.

“Yeah… more or less like that.” Greg smiled fondly at his son. “So I stuck around in Beach City.”

“Must be a hell of a woman.”

“She was pretty great,” Greg said softly, and his broad smile was … less broad, now, his eyes not quite as bright. Steven looked up sharply at his father— smiled, worried, earnestly reassuring.

Ah. Ah, not a divorce at all. And Steven must have been so young, because there seemed to be no painful memories there, no echoing sense of loss. An absence; Steven had never known her, Gregory still mourned her. He knew how a void like that could linger in the heart.

“Can’t we at least tempt you to stay to dinner?” The words tumbled out, surprising them all. Henry cleared his throat. “Abraham makes a truly divine bolognese, and we really do need to use the beef before it’s too late— I bought far too much for a pair of bachelors.”

It was obvious that being recognized for his music had softened Greg, but he still gave Abe and Henry a long, long look before succumbing to his son’s hopeful smile.

“If you guys don’t mind. Thanks. That’d be really nice of you.”

“Bologna!” Steven cheered.

“Bolognese. It’s like fancy spaghetti sauce,” Greg corrected him sagely.

“Is tagliatelle all right?” Henry asked, recalling suddenly how picky Abe gotten about familiar foods after one of their moves— a monotonous period in the Morgan family’s culinary history, but it had been important to young Abe.

Greg’s response was a confused frown. Abe interjected quickly:

“I could toss in linguini or spaghetti if tagliatelle isn’t your speed in pasta.”

“Can we have spaghetti?” Steven asked, latching onto the familiar.

“Hey, kiddo, they’re doing us a favor. We probably shouldn’t be too picky. Hey, don’t worry about us, Mister Morgan.” Embarrassment flickered across the musician’s face. “We won’t turn down anything you put in front of us.”

“Hey, it’s okay. I was a kid with strong preferences, once.” Abe shot a sidelong glance at Henry, his eyes creased in a smile. “You should have heard my dad. ‘Spaghetti bolognese is a lazy American invention, Abraham.’ I knew better, though. You weren’t going to catch me eating noodles that wide. Spaghetti or nothing.”

“You were talked around to macaroni, once, I believe,” Henry said, smiling at the memory. “Or so you told me,” he added, hating the necessity of pretending that he hadn’t been there.

“Yeah, well. I had to start growing up into a man of the world at some point, didn’t I?”

 _Yes you did,_ Henry wanted to tell him. _And you did grow up into quite a man._

Instead, he said to Greg: “It’s quite all right. Trust us. Abe, why don’t you take them upstairs? I can man the shop until closing time.”

“That means we have to put the guitar up, kiddo,” Greg said, and Steven wistfully surrendered it. Henry saw the sly glance at the price tag, the pained expression on the other man’s face— not surprised at all, but still pained.

Henry understood. Oh, Abe hadn’t much wanted for physical things, but they had never been able to give him stability. They’d wrenched him away from places and friends that he’d loved in the service of Henry’s secret, and every time he’d seen the look on his son’s face and wished that he could perform miracles.

“You’re doing the cow eye thing,” Abe murmured on his way past. “It’s okay, they’re staying for dinner, they aren’t going to freeze outside selling matches or anything. Cheer up or you’re gonna scare off our customers.”

“I am not doing a cow eye thing,” Henry retorted, and composed himself.

Of course, with the faint, comforting sounds of domesticity filtering down from the apartment above, and the occasional patter of a small child going somewhere at high speed, it was easy enough to smile.

By the time he could in good conscience close the shop, flipping the sign on the door from open to closed, he could already smell the pasta sauce; he jogged up the steps to the sight of Steven setting the table and his father helping Abe drain the pasta.

"It appears my timing was perfect," he said.

"Yeah, yeah, you're a genius," Abe said, but there was a crinkle around his eyes. He was enjoying this unusual company as much as Henry. "Sit down already."

"This is quite a spread. Thanks," Greg said. "Hey, Steven, eat some of these green beans first."

"I accept this mission," Steven said scowling seriously, and proceeded to so.

Henry caught Abe's eye, lifting a brow. _You used to eat your vegetables the same way. Like a death sentence._

Abe caught the unspoken message; he rolled his eyes. He shoved a deliberate bite of green beans into his mouth a moment later, only a bit of a smile marring his otherwise blank expression.

They ate pasta and garlic bread; Abe and Henry had wine. Greg politely refused, and Steven contented himself with water in the absence of soda. Slowly, the elder Universe's wary tension started to ease as he realized that his hosts weren't going to turn on him suddenly for using the wrong fork.

"So it was me and Jerry and Christine and Shell from my old university, and we were all in one place. We figured why not? Jerry and I were overseas for Woodstock, we were making up for our deprived youth," Abe reminisced happily.

Henry snorted.

"Ignoring you. So anyway, saw the flyers for the musicfest, found a hillside, spread a blanket, passed around a-- " A pause, a glance at Henry, and then at their younger guest. "--bottle of pop--"

"Lots of pop at that festival," Greg agreed, mostly straight-faced.

Steven gave them all a puzzled look and then tucked back into his garlic bread.

"Yeah, you were down the hill a ways, but I saw your van. And man, I remember your set. First half anyway; it did get a little hazy towards the end there."

"It's nice to be remembered. Touring was-- well, parts of it were great. I'm still producing music, but it's on the side now. It all goes up on the internet."

"No kidding?" Abe enthused. "I'll give it a try. Annoy Henry. He thinks anything post big band swing is uncouth."

"I do nothing of the sort! Ignore him, Gregory, please. Steven--" he added gently, since the young man had finished his food and was squirming a bit in the absence of attention. "I see you're quite the musician yourself. Do you study it in school?"

"Nope. Just with dad. I don't go to school."

"He's home-schooled," Greg put in; obviously he'd had to explain this before. "Some of his mom's friends are tutoring him. History, physics, some math-- it's all very open lesson plan. Very. Open lesson plan. But they're doing better than I could."

"They're great!" Steven enthused. "I stay with them most of the time, when they're not out on missions."

"Missions?" Abe asked.

"Yeah!"

Steven unfolded a colourful fantasy of his tutors as women of supernatural talent, imagining them in daring life-or-death battles with strange creatures whenever they were away.

“So by open lesson plan you mean hippy?” Abe asked in an undertone as Steven described with relish the youngest of his teachers battling a man-eating alien plant. “Haven’t heard that many crystal names since Berkeley.”

“More a runs in the family thing,” Greg answered, tone almost too light.

Henry could guess what was being unspoken between the lines, given Greg’s background. Quite hippy; perhaps a commune of some variety. But Steven’s grasp on history was wonderful for a boy of his age, and this free-spirited upbringing seemed to suit him to a tee. Henry had been educated largely by tutors himself… although grim Mister Roylott had never inspired fantasies of adventure. Rather fantasies of never having to speak Latin again.

Letting Abe and Greg gossip, Henry listened to their young guest with delight. He loved the imaginations of children, the boundless energy-- but he could see that Steven's father felt rather pale in the shadow of these formidable women. He gave the other man an encouraging smile, and steered the topic back to his musical studies. It might have held them until bed-time if the table hadn't needed clearing. Greg volunteered, and with Henry washing and Steven carefully drying, the dishes were cleared and cleaned in no time.

After only a brief negotiation-- Greg would have taken a futon on the floor but Henry refused outright-- the Universes were set up in his bedroom, Henry's bed ample for father and son.

"I'll survive the couch," he promised, overriding Greg's last objection. "I have before. I'll likely be up late anyway."

Steven wished him a cheerful goodnight, showing none of the hesitation of his father. It had been such a heartbreak when Abe had no longer approached every day and change and move like an adventure; for Greg’s sake Henry privately wished Steven would maintain his sense of wonderment for quite a while longer yet.

Abe was waiting for him in the darkened living room, arms full of blankets. "The guy thinks you're running a scam on him."

"Hardly. I was born in an age where hospitality wasn't on its last legs."

"Oh, bull. There were assholes in 1779. Nah. You're just a soft touch for kids." Abe lowered his voice. "I have to say I'm feeling kind of guilty about not giving you any grandkids right now."

Henry shook his head. Of course he had wished it, sometimes, but he wasn't unhappy with his lot. "I'm terribly proud of you, despite that one failing, you know." He took the blankets from Abe, spreading them on the couch.

"Just the one, huh?"

"Don't push your luck." Standing, he grasped his son's shoulders, tugging him in for a kiss on the forehead. "Sleep well, Abraham."

"You too, Pops. Love you."

Henry settled himself to sleep on the couch, and slept so thoroughly that breakfast was on the table and Steven calling excitedly for him before he woke up again.

He and Abe had to open the shop and he had to start his shift at the OCME, and the Universes had to be on their way, but Henry stole away for a moment while Abe was busy with the register and Steven was spending a moment with the classical guitar he'd taken such a fancy to.

"I hope you have a safe trip home," he said.

"I can't thank you enough, Doctor Morgan," Greg said, still nervous.

"It was our pleasure," Henry said. "I mean that."

"I don't really have any way of paying you back."

"That's unnecessary. But if you feel obliged to, there is one thing... How often are you in Empire City?"

"A few times a year." Greg fixed him with a hesitant look, half cynical, half clearly anxious about the pound of flesh Henry was going to extract.

"I know from extremely reliable sources that Abraham wanted to take up the guitar once, to be the sort of musician young women admired. His parents insisted on the piano. I think he still wishes that he’d learned. And he considers you something of an expert on the subject of... that sort of music."

Greg chuckled at Henry's distaste for rock, looking less like he thought he was about to be mugged now.  "So are you asking--"

"...do you give lessons?"

* * *

_2013: Empire City, A Friday_

"Yeah, I've got time tonight. You kidding? I'm thrilled."

Henry trotted down the steps into the shop, finding Abraham on the phone. He was grinning almost boyishly, and he waved Henry over. "Henry will be thrilled too. Yeah, six-thirty, I'll be done closing up. You too!" He hung up, and turned to Henry. "Hope you don't mind a little rock and roll tonight. My guitar teacher's in town early."

"Gregory's coming over?"

Abe’s guitar lessons were irregular, restricted by Greg’s schedule and availability to make the nearly five-hour drive into the city, but they provided a welcome burst of activity, something that Henry hadn’t realized he was missing. He wasn’t a shut-in; he flirted, occasionally made an assignation with one or the other charming women, but nothing lasting. Nothing even as regular as these occasional visits from the Universes.

In short Henry was, as Abe predicted, thrilled. And a bit worried. They didn't have anything planned for dinner, he hadn't been expecting company. He tried to make sure that Greg got a home-cooked meal when he visited every few months. It hadn’t taken long for Henry to find out that Greg fended for himself when Steven was away with his tutors, and Henry found the idea of living off of waffle-iron grilled cheese appalling.

"Yeah, in town getting some equipment from a friend. Wanted to know if I was available."

"Is Steven with him?"

A headshake. Henry's mouth twisted ruefully. "It's likely for the best. He ought to be in school, oughn't he?" He hadn’t been able to make out a pattern in the times that Steven came along, the times he couldn’t, but then he wasn’t in a traditional school. His tutors operated on their own obscure schedule, it would seem.

"I guess. I can’t figure out his weird boarding-school home-school thing. I miss the kid, too. You gonna survive the heartbreak?"

"Of course. I'm quite fond of Greg. I wish I'd had a little more notice; leftovers aren't the thing."

"Hey, he'd be thrilled either way, but you want to take him out?"

"Where? Our usual spots..."

"I see the words 'have dress codes' on the tip of your tongue," Abe teased him. "How about that new Gastropub across the bridge?"

"Oh, Abe, not there. They do horrible things to simple staples and then charge twenty dollars for them."

"Yeah, and you ate how many of those fried peanut-butter and prosciutto jobs?"

"One. I had one." That Abe knew about.

"You came back to the shop three times that week with pear jam on your mouth.”

Or... he could have known about the rest of them.

"Point taken. And they don't have a dress code. If anything, Greg will be overdressed. Not so much as a visible piercing."

"Yeah, yeah. Kids these days, I know. Hey, can you watch the shop for a while? I'd like to get some practice in."

"Of course. Keep it down, we don't want to frighten customers away with the devil's music," Henry said, straight-faced, and Abe chuckled on his way up the stairs.

Henry had been planning to tidy the shop anyway; they'd sold a few large items recently and the places where they'd been gapped open amidst the packed antiques. He squared his shoulders, rolled his sleeves past the elbow, and settled in to move furniture and re-arrange.

It was soothing work, enjoyable and homey compared to the morgue. Oh, he found the scent of latex and ammonium cleaning products comfortable in its own way— even the scent of old death rarely bothered him. But this, wood and aging paper and dust, touched a more primal note in him, worked all the way back to childhood.

He moved tables, placed and replaced small curios, dusted; faint guitar chords floated down to him, the methodical repetition of some or another popular song that Abe was fond of.

He was nearly done when he got to the last obstacle, a low, hardwood chest of drawers that would just neatly fill the last wall-space. It was well-made and thick, though, and even with the drawers pulled out and stacked on a drop-cloth it was too heavy to move easily. When he tried it groaned out a warning against the floor, promising deep scrapes if he pushed it any further.

The shop bell tinkled.

"Just a moment!" he called out to the prospective customer.

He studied the chest for a moment. It galled him to leave it out of place, but he couldn't safely move it alone, and getting the hand cart out would keep the customer waiting too long—

"You want a hand with that?"

Not a customer.

"Gregory!" Henry turned, his resigned expression giving way to a warm smile. He extended a hand.

"Jeeze, Doctor Morgan. Greg is fine," the musician chuckled, shaking his hand.

"Not if you're going to call me ‘Doctor Morgan'."

"Okay. So... Henry. Do you want a hand?"

"I'd love one, but— you're our guest, Gregor- Greg."

"Hey, it's fine," Greg reassured him, taking his place at one end of the chest. "Where are we taking it?"

"Right into that gap— on three?" At a nod: "One. Two. Three—" They lifted together, with twin grunts of effort, and began to step it towards the nearby wall. There was the whisper of old furniture pads against wood; the legs barely cleared the ground.

They were both breathing heavily when they set it gently down, sighing in relief. Greg stretched, leaning back with his hands propped on his lumbar.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. I may not look it now, but I used to be pretty buff. I've still got it in me."

"I've seen pictures," Henry laughed. "I believe you."

Abe had showed him on the computer— gentle Greg had once been quite the dangerous-looking ruffian in his youth. Handsome, though, and solidly built even as a young man; Henry could see the young tough in his friend easily. Time had added pounds and shifted his hairline, yes, but Henry liked what it had made of Greg Universe.

"Abe upstairs?" Greg asked, wiping his forehead. Henry automatically offered a handkerchief, which his guest took as if it might be fragile.

"Yes. Practicing. I thought we might take you to dinner first, though."

"I couldn't—"

"Please? We rarely have guests. It would be our pleasure."

That moment of hesitation. Then: "Sure. Thanks, D- Henry. Thanks."

The gastropub turned out to be exactly Greg's speed— aside from the pricing, which Henry commanded him to ignore:

"It's Empire City pricing, I'm afraid. We're used to it."

They chatted together over dinner, light conversation over the din of the pub-- music, the state of it, synthetic instruments and their place in things. Abe didn’t comment on the fried peanut butter and prosciutto sandwich as it disappeared readily from Henry’s plate, but he gave a look Henry pointedly ignored.

Henry felt eyes on them; a young woman kept darting glances at the table. No, specifically, at Greg. He pointed her out discretely, a question in his raised eyebrow.

He didn't have long to wonder; as soon as Greg made eye contact she slipped off her barstool and trotted over.

"I'm so sorry to bother you, and I'm sorry if you've get this a lot, but are you Greg Universe?"

"I actually don't get that a lot, but I am," Greg chuckled.

She bounced on her feet, the wide plugs in her ears swinging with her enthusiasm. "I follow you on bandcamp. I sampled ‘Every Porkchop’ in my 80's chiptune remix?"

"Oh, JKCrash?"

"Right! Oh my god, wow, small world, right? Are you in town playing?"

"Nah, I don't really play publically anymore. I'm catching up with friends."

"You should play!" she said. "Why did you stop?"

"Met a great woman, had a great son... needed a dayjob."

"Boo." She wrinkled her nose. "That's so sad."

"It's really not," Greg said, a surprising firmness in the words. "I have music and a family now. One just got more important than the other."

"Well.. obviously family is great, but you need to follow your dreams."

There was a beat of silence, a shadow on Greg's face, and then he was all smiles again: "Saw your new collaboration up— great stuff."

"You think so! Thanks!"

"Hey, an old buddy of mine has a kid who's getting into chiptunes— would you mind if I gave him your name?"

"No, that'd be great."

"Great. He’ll be under, uh, SaurKream15— that's sour with an a, cream with a k, one five.  At least this week, if he's changed it again I'll shoot you an update."

"Awesome." The pair of them exchanged cryptic messages on twin scraps of napkin, and the young woman zipped away to tell her friends who she'd met. They seemed less enthused than she did— perhaps not internet musicians themselves.

Greg shook his head, and smiled, and it was past.

He seemed to be in perfect cheer through the rest of dinner, and by all appearances enjoyed the guitar lesson with Abe as much as Abe did. Henry kept out from underfoot, doing paperwork in the dining room, glancing over now and then to watch with fondness. The music was drifting further and further from anything he personally enjoyed, but to see Abe's face light up like that he would endure much worse.

It wasn't until Henry walked their guest out— trying one more time to convince him to stay the night and drive back in the morning— that he saw that hint of sadness again.

"Nah. I'd like to get home in case something happens with Steven. And that pressure head won't install itself."

"Understood." Henry wasn't quite sure how to ask what was wrong: he came in at an oblique angle instead. "You were kind to the young woman at the pub."

"She's young. And maybe her dream is always going to be music. Maybe she'll get to the sky and never look back." Greg sighed softly. "Thing is... she told me to follow my dreams, and it's hard to explain to people that I did. Rose was like something right out of a fantasy. Yeah, I didn't wind up where I thought I would, but — I can't imagine anything better."

A glance out the dark shop window, towards the van waiting. "I love all the young musicians who’re up and coming, I think it's great that they're getting their music heard. I just ... eh. I'm fine with being the car wash guy who does music on the side. I just wish that other people would stop treating it like a tragedy."

Henry let out a breath. "You're not the car wash guy to me, Gregory. I hope you know that."

"Well. I am literally a guy who runs a car wash."

"Well, yes, but—" he shook his head. "It's hardly your defining trait. You're a father, first and foremost— a loving father raising a splendid young man. I can't think of a more respectable or noble calling."

Greg looked back at him, surprised. "Neither can I." His smile took on distinct lopsidedness. "I just have trouble explaining that to other people. I'm kind of surprised that — you know, a single guy like you?"

"I wasn't always." It was like a tidal wave, the sudden urge to unburden himself— a wave he held firmly in check. No, Greg might keep his secret, but it wasn't a risk he could take. Not when he was settled, not when there was so much to leave behind if he had to run—

"I met a woman like a dream made flesh, once. She had a son. It didn't last forever, but I can't imagine making a different choice, now." It was true. The pain and the grief— horrible price to pay, but better than never having known Abigail. Better than not having Abe with him now.

Greg reached out, thought better of it, and turned the gesture into a proffered hand.

Henry took it, and used it to pull him into an embrace. Once given permission, Greg put his arms around him unselfconsciously, letting him linger without embarrassment or awkward attempts to reassert his masculinity. Henry had grown up in a time when affection between men was nothing that signaled sexual inclination, had no shame to it, and it was bittersweet to find a kindred spirit in a man he saw perhaps three or four times in a year.

But that was safer; easier not to lie to Greg if Greg saw almost nothing of his life. He was a good man who didn't deserve to be lied to.

"I ought to get on the road," Greg said quietly, when they parted.

"Yes. Drive carefully, please. And give my love to Steven?"

"Of course. And I'll try to bring him up when I come back in the summer."

"You'll be welcome here any time, both of you.”

There seemed to be little to say after that, beyond goodbye, and Henry unlocked the door and watched Greg until he was safely into his van and had pulled out onto the quiet street.

It felt as if for the first time in a long, long while, as if he might have a friend.


End file.
